


echo

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Intimacy, Mullet Stan Pines, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Young Stan Pines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22123393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "I didn't—I didn't think—," he starts after another minute, roughly, whispered into your mouth. You shush him with a kiss, your hands coming up to hold his face. He leans into your touch, and you're halfway overcome with some fresh new wave of tenderness. You've never really heard Stan speechless before, not like this."I know," you say, into the quiet. "I know."
Relationships: Stan Pines/Reader
Kudos: 138





	echo

**Author's Note:**

> Gender-neutral reader.

It's late in the evening—you didn't feel the time pass, but the sun's long gone and you're here. Stan's headed up to Oregon tomorrow morning, bright and early, and you had invited him over as sort of a going away party (though it was really only you and him, eating popcorn in bed and nursing half a bottle of jack between the two of you). It's not like he's ever had roots to leave, really, but he visits you every time he passes through your area. Usually it's every few weeks or so, sometimes longer, sometimes shorter, and you and him spend a couple days shooting the breeze until the sun comes up, soft and white-yellow. It's been this way for years, though lately you've been wishing he stuck around a little longer.

You can feel the heat off his body, your head resting on his shoulder. You had run out of your drinks hours before and its effects had mostly worn off, leaving you soft and sleepy. Stan's bright grins, too, are coming out as more of fond smiles, all tender at the corners. You're in an oversized t-shirt and underwear, not out of any desire to be sexy but because it's comfortable, and you trust Stan. He's been your friend for at least a couple of years, now, at least. Which makes his leaving this time so much worse. Because he probably isn't coming back. 

("My brother needs me," he had said, showing you the postcard. "I haven't seen him in years, you know.")

You look over at him, now, the warm glow of your lamp casting shadows against his face. He's backlit, and you can only just see the hard line of his jaw silhouetted in the lowlight. He catches you staring, lips turning up, making some quip you hardly hear. His eyes are warm, brown, and you feel like you could fall into them. In the yellow lamplight, they look like sunlight shining through honey. You realize belatedly that he's still talking, face twisted in concern. His big hand presses against your forehead before you can say anything, checking your temperature, somehow both rough and gentle.

That's all it takes; you can't take it anymore. You lean in, pressing your lips against Stan's, just once, just... softly. 

He stiffens, pulling away like he's been burned—and then hauls you back in with a warm hand curled protectively around the back of your neck. When he pulls back next, it's only a few centimeters, his forehead still pressed against yours, like he can't bear to go any further.

"I've been in love with you forever," you admit, barely above a whisper. Your voice is steady, though your heart quickens against your ribs. "It's always been you." 

There's a fear, here, you and him both pulling down the heavy defenses around yourselves, the boundaries you set as _just friends_ , the weird, burgeoning feeling you've both been tiptoeing around forever. And yet there's a trust, too; Stan leans in, pressing a soft, near-chaste kiss against your mouth. You sigh, and he parts his lips for you. He tastes like peach soda.

"I didn't—I didn't think—," he starts after another minute, roughly, whispered into your mouth. You shush him with a kiss, your hands coming up to hold his face. He leans into your touch, and you're halfway overcome with some fresh new wave of tenderness. You've never really heard Stan speechless before, not like this.

"I know," you say, into the quiet. "I know."

Stan presses his mouth against yours again. Your hands come up to tangle in his brown hair, and he makes a soft, desperate noise into your mouth. Except he's not kissing you like he's desperate to fuck you—he's kissing you like he's desperate for you to _understand_ him, to slide under his skin and hold him together. You realize, suddenly, that your face is wet. Are you crying? A hand to your cheek comes away moistened, but no, its not you—it's Stan. 

"Fuck," he says, when he realizes. "I'm sorry." He swipes roughly at his cheek, and you put a hand against his forearm to stop him.

"Don't be," you say, and you mean it. You wipe his tears away with gentle hands, the cool of your fingers like a balm against his heated skin. It's a wordless, gentle admonition: _don't be so rough with yourself._ "Look. You're rubbing your face all red."

Looking up into your soft, open face, you can see when his walls finally come tumbling down. They _were_ always thicker than yours, after all. The tears start again in earnest, though he cries silently. Only the slight, trembling, inward curl of his shoulders gives him away. You wonder where he learned to do that, _why_ he learned to do that. You think you might be close to crying yourself. 

After a moment, you tug him down so his head is tucked in the crook of your neck, your hands stroking through his hair and over his shoulders soothingly. He turns to hide his face, and you let him.

"You're so _nice_ to me," Stan chokes out, finally, voice rough. "You make me feel so—so—I—I'm so tired of being _alone_."

"Oh, _Stan_ ," you say. What else can you say? What words could ever be enough to even begin to explain how much you love him, how much you trust him and want him and care for him? What could you ever say that could possibly contain the infinite expansiveness of your longing, of the feeling in your chest as steady as the rise and fall of the tide, of breath? There's nothing. You know that. You've tried for so long to put language to it, but it's never enough. All you can do is kiss him, trying to make it taste like everything words fall short of saying. 

"I know," Stan says, when you pull away, a watery little smile on his face and lashes still dark and wet. "I know."


End file.
